Phoenix and Ashes (37 page)

Eleanor
finished her breakfast and tidied up, her mind still turning over all the
things she had studied.
Fire is Swords, in the Tarot deck; there’s
Mars again. So that
’s my
weakness, the one she’ll try to
exploit, because if there’s one thing she really does understand,
it’s how to use someone’s weaknesses against him, and how to turn a
strength into a weakness to exploit. Anger, hate, and despair
—

She
stopped dead in the middle of the kitchen and clapped her hand to her mouth as
a sudden revelation hit.

She
already has
!
She already has
!
The night we got the news about
Father being killed
!
I was in despair, and she pounced on it
!

And
the more she thought about it, the more it seemed to her that Alison’s
spells
always
got stronger the more depressed that Eleanor was. The
question was, did Alison know about the alchemical philosophy, or was this a
case of something else—the simple siphoning of dark power from someone
who was generating a lot of it?

The
sooner she knew the answer to that question, the better off she would be.

And—
Imagination
and Intellect—the answer just might be right under my nose…

May 2, 1917
Longacre Park, Warwickshire

REGGIE HALF-WOKE
SEVERAL TIMES DURING the night, responding to a vague feeling of
presences
in his room with him. Most narcotics and soporifics actually had the effect of
taking down the mental barriers between even ordinary folk and the Unseen, but
Doctor Maya had seen to it that Reggie’s prescriptions had added
components to them that had the opposite effect. Or so he assumed, anyway,
since after he had started taking the drugs that
she
had prescribed,
his sleep was no longer troubled by unwanted visitors.

So
the feeling of
presence
was never enough to trouble his dreams or
fully wake him out of slumber. The painkillers did their job, and he woke late
in the morning of the second of May feeling stiff and sore, but not
half-crippled. He dressed without assistance, and made his way down to
breakfast with only the aid of a cane.

There
was an odd addition to the usually spartan breakfast menu. Tea-cakes, split and
lightly toasted, in place of actual toast, scones, or crumpets. He eyed them
with amusement; it seemed that there were still leftovers from the School
Treat.

“Waste
not, want not,” he said aloud, and treated them like toasted crumpets or
scones. His mother, always an early riser, had long since had her breakfast,
and was probably out with the gardener, dealing with the inevitable damage done
to the gardens by the children. There were always accidents, and little ones
too small to know any better who would tear up flower beds making bouquets.
Fortunately the famous roses were perfectly capable of defending themselves,
the herb garden was in a walled and hedged space of its own that was off-limits
during the school treat, and the current gardener was not likely to threaten
suicide over some torn-up plants.

After
a quite satisfactory breakfast, he went to the windows of the terrace and
spotted her, as he had expected, pointing to places in the flower beds and
presumably talking over repairs with the gardener. It was too far for him to
hear what they were saying, but when he went outside to the balustrade, she saw
him watching and waved, and shortly thereafter joined him upon the terrace.

“The
little terrors!” she said fondly. “The primroses are quite
decimated, and the tulips and daffodils as well.
Luckily
they did not
actually tear up any bulbs this year, and we planned for this, at any rate.
There are more than enough plants coming along in the greenhouse to cover the
damage. In two days no one will know they were here.”

“Hmm,”
he replied, giving her a sideways glance. “I seem to recall a certain
little boy who presented his mother with a May Day bouquet of all of the
exceedingly
rare double-ruffled tulips that the gardener had been cosseting over the winter
in hopes of finally getting a good show out of them.”

“And
very lovely they looked in a vase on my desk, too,” she chuckled.
“Furthermore, despite all predictions to the contrary, they gave just as
good a show the next spring. And the times being what they are, I would rather
have happy children than a perfect garden.”

“You’re
a trump, Mater,” he said warmly, bending down to kiss her cheek.

“I
have my moments,” she agreed. “Oh! Your aunt is definitely coming,
and I must say, I am glad of it. The Brigadier offered to bring her in his
motorcar, so they’ll be arriving together.”

“Good!
And we ought to start having small parties with some of our neighbors,
too,” he said, even though that was really the last thing he wanted. He
was going to enjoy having the Brigadier here, and his aunt would be good
company for his mother, but—

But
the truth was, he would have been a great deal happier with no more than that.
Aunt has an instinct for when I want to be left alone, and the Brigadier does a
good job of keeping himself to himself. But some of the neighbors…

Nevertheless,
he could see for himself how much more animated his mother was.
She
needed the company, even if he didn’t want it. It was about time she
started to live again.

“Well,
we’ll see what your aunt suggests,” was all his mother
said—but he knew there would at least be some dinners, and some
card-parties, and very probably things would start simmering and break out in
tea dances and garden parties, and tennis parties, and possibly even—

He
resolved not to think about it until it happened, but he knew what his mother
was thinking when she said, altogether too casually, “I must say I was
pleasantly surprised by the strength of your gramophone. It quite takes the
place of musicians, doesn’t it?”

May 2, 1917
Broom, Warwickshire

It was the second of
May, and Eleanor was still alone in the house. She could hardly believe her
good fortune. Whatever was keeping her stepmother and stepsisters away, Eleanor
hoped it was vastly entertaining. The longer they stayed away, the better.

Now,
since the entire party had gone off by motorcar, Eleanor knew that she would
not be seeing them until evening at the earliest if they even returned today at
all. Alison preferred to rise as late as possible and travel in a leisurely
manner. So this meant that today, at least, she should have the whole of the day
in freedom.

Or
at least, relative freedom. More freedom than she’d had for three
years…

In
that moment, she felt a shadow of depression fall over her. Freedom! She
wasn’t free. To use that word, even to herself, was to mock her own
condition. She could only leave the house for an hour or two at most. She
couldn’t talk to anyone and be believed. What food she ate that
wasn’t stolen was scant and poor. Her clothing was the rags of what
she’d owned three years ago. She labored as a menial from dawn to dusk,
unpaid, no better than a slave. Any tiny crumb of pleasure she got could be
snatched away at any time. Such freedom! When her stepmother was in the house,
she couldn’t leave it. Only one person besides the village witch
recognized who she really was, and she couldn’t tell him the truth,
because her very words were hedged about and compelled by spells.

Freedom…
scullery maids had more freedom than she did.

She
felt her eyes stinging, and stifled a sob.

What’s
the use
?
I’m a prisoner no matter what happens
.

But
she felt rebellion against that despair stirring inside her after a moment. And
she scrubbed the incipient tears away with the back of her hand, fiercely. All
right. She was a prisoner now—but less of one than she had been a few
months ago. Alison was no longer the only one with magic at her command; her
compulsions and spells were weakening under the steady pressure of what Eleanor
was learning to master. And there was the promise of freedom in her
mother’s workbook. One day, Eleanor would be a Master of Fire.

She
would hold to that hope, and that promise. Hope—so much could be endured
so long as there was hope.

I
will work
! she pledged herself, fiercely. I will become a Master of Fire!
And then I will take back my freedom. Nothing else matters. Even if I have to
make my way as a servant because no one will believe what happened, I will have
that!

And
meanwhile—meanwhile life would go on. She would steal what pleasure she
could. She would win whatever scraps she could. She would learn by day and hide
her growing power under the mask of the meek and frightened girl that Alison
expected to see.

And
she might as well use Alison’s absence to remake some of those skirts and
shirtwaists, for instance. Or one set, at any rate. A simple, unadorned skirt
and an altered blouse should not be beyond her sewing ability.

In
its way, that was rebellion too. Maybe no one would notice, but she would be
less ragged, less beggarly, and have regained just a little more dignity, if
only in her own mind. It was hard to feel anything but a victim when all you
had was patched and threadbare clothing not even a street urchin would want.
She would gain back a little of her own pride, in spite of Alison.

The
thought was the parent to the deed; after as little cleaning of the house as
she could get away with to satisfy Alison’s spells, she attacked the now
dry and clean skirts and blouses with scissors and needle. She did all her
cutting-out at once, because she might not get another chance, took the scraps
and put them in the rag-bag to hide them, then laid the pieces away under her
bed—all but the makings for one new skirt and shirtwaist.

She
had been an indifferent seamstress before Alison arrived; why should she be any
good at it, when she’d never had to so much as turn up a hem in her life?
But she’d been forced to learn, mostly by observing the maids, for Alison
had no intention of parting with a single penny to keep Eleanor
clothed—and of course, once all of the maids were gone, Eleanor added the
task of mending her stepsisters’ clothing to the rest of her chores.

By
then, she had learned on her own garments, as they grew shabbier with each day.
Hems came down, seams ripped, and when one did all the rough work of the house,
sooner or later things got torn. All of her current clothing dated from 1914
and before. Most of it was looking like something even a gypsy would be ashamed
of, and the best of it was shabby.

Well,
there’s one blessing
, she thought, as she sat out in the garden,
sewing as quickly as she could.
There’s not a lot of material in a
modern skirt, compared to the ones I just cut up. If I’d been living
fifty years ago, this would take days
.

The
old linen was soft and heavy, like a damask tablecloth, and if the color had
faded from its original indigo to a softer blue, at least it had faded evenly
and the color was still pretty. And she could use the time while her fingers
worked to continue to puzzle out the cryptic things she had read in the alchemy
books last night.

She
began by trying to puzzle them out, rationally and logically but as the needle
wove through the heavy linen, it became more of a meditation. Fire…
flame… heat. The heat of passion… of love and anger. Righteous
anger, carefully controlled. Anger as a weapon. Could love be a weapon?

A
weapon—well, perhaps not, but armor, certainly armor! And as a
shield…

It
was hard to get past her own education, in a way. Young ladies weren’t
supposed to think about anger, or passion. Young ladies—

Young
ladies weren’t supposed to think about a great many things, but she had
never let that stop her before.

It
was long past the time when what young ladies were “supposed” to
think about was changed.

Passion.
Passion was dangerous; passion overcame reason. Yes, it could, but only if you
surrendered your own will to it. That was in the alchemy books, too. If your
will was strong, and your heart listened to your head, passion could be a great
force for good. Passion could drive a person to do more, far more, than she
thought she could. Passion became strength…

She
thought about the book that had held drawings of some strange cards, cards
unlike the playing cards she was used to. The card called
“Strength” was a picture of a beautiful maiden gently holding the
jaws of a lion shut with a single hand. That was passion in control of will,
the heart obeying the head. Fire yearned to blaze without control, and yet,
under the gentle guidance of will, it was a willing servant. Not tame, but
tempered…

The
needle flashed in the sunlight, the seams grew of themselves. It was a pleasure
to sew out here in the sun, and by just luncheon, she was finished. As she
surveyed her handiwork with pleasure and a little pride in her
accomplishment—three years ago she would haven’t even have been
able to sew up the hem!—she couldn’t help but wonder that if she
wore these up to the meadow, would Reggie notice?

Ah,
what am I thinking
?
Why should he notice what I wear or don’t
wear
?

She
shook off those thoughts, changed into her new outfit with a sense of making
another little step back toward that world she had been evicted from, and ate
her luncheon with her nose firmly in her alchemy books. One of the authors was
very taken with a magical discipline called the Kabala, but the moment she
tried to puzzle
that
out, she felt her eyes practically watering. If
her mother had ever mastered that school, there was no sign of it in the notes
she had left, and all of the numbers and letters and strange words just made
Eleanor’s head ache. She went back to her medievalists. The book with the
drawings of the cards attracted her profoundly; she couldn’t have said
why, because she wasn’t interested in the so-called fortune-telling
abilities of the cards. No, it was more as if they could tell her something
about the powers of the Elements in a more understandable way than that Kabala
book.